


A Photograph of this Love

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-13
Updated: 2007-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:23:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Horrible idea," Rodney says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Photograph of this Love

"Horrible idea," Rodney says. He's panting, and there's a streak of mud on one cheek from where he fell on during their hike up the hill. His BDU's are ripped at the knees and he's as soaked to the skin as John is, wet cotton clinging to the line of his shoulders and the curve of his stomach. His boots squelch damply with every step he takes, and he sounds thoroughly, utterly miserable. "Awful, terrible, no good very bad idea."

"Rodney," John says, pushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead, "If you want—"

"If I want to what, to _die_? If it's escaped your notice, Colonel, we are, in fact, in the middle of a very active storm, with high winds and torrential rain and thunder and what's that in the distance, oh yes, _lightning_. Lightning, Colonel, and you want us to take shelter underneath a _tree_"—he gestures up at the tree, at the broad, spreading branches, and the leaves made glossy by rain, as if their existence offends him—"because of course knowing our luck, hah, _your _luck, I should say, that's not going to act as a conductor at all—"

"Rodney," John says while trying to wring out the damp cotton of his t-shirt, because he doesn't want to end up in the infirmary with yet another chest infection, with yet more disapproving looks from Beckett; and if he had to lay odds on the probable outcome of this little jaunt offworld, he thinks pneumonia is much more likely than being struck by lightning.

"—and of course, we won't be hit by thousands of volts of electricity and there will be no cardiac arrests or skin burns or, or _cataracts_—"

"_Rodney_," John says, letting his head fall back against the bark of the tree with a dull thump, "I'm pretty sure we're not going to go home with cataracts, or skin burns, or cardiac arrests, or anything other lightning related defect. Course, I can guarantee you'll have a pretty big bruise on your head."

"I—what?" Rodney looks up, startled, as if waiting for a branch to become dislodged by a lightning strike and fall, adding to his already impressive number of concussions and deprive the galaxy of yet more genius insights. John takes advantage of his distraction to hit him upside the head and glare at him; he hopes there'll be a bruise, because he's just had to listen to three miles of that, uphill, in a _lightning storm._

Rodney glares back for a moment, then deflates suddenly. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"

John represses a grin at the way Rodney's shoulders slump; he knows from past experience that any sign of agreement or disagreement with that particular statement can only lead to some very circular arguments. "Nah, you just had a long day," he says instead, and stretches out a hand. "C'mere."

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney says, but he goes willingly into the circle of John's arm, and rests his head against John's shoulder. The rain redoubles in strength around them, thrumming against the ground, churning it to mud, and Rodney shivers. "I just—I just really do _not_ like storms. Not since—not for a while."

"Shh," John says, "S'ok, buddy, c'mere." He tugs at Rodney gently, urging him to lift his head, and kisses him softly. Rodney is slow to respond at first, but then his hands come up to cup John's face and he's kissing back, tongue and teeth and lips, with something that's not quite urgency, but is even better—force, intent, long-nurtured want. John strokes a thumb across the nape of Rodney's neck, opens his mouth and lets Rodney in, coaxes whimpers and murmurs and soft noises from his mouth.

There's bark scratching at the back of John's neck, digging at his back through his t-shirt, and Rodney is pressed against him, warm and heavy and damp; all around them, there is wind and rain and the distant crack of thunder, but here it is calm and safe, here it is _them_, the centre, the eye of the storm.


End file.
